All the World's a Stage
by Greg Zerich
Summary: A contemplation on the actors and actresses that make the play possible.


**All the Worlds' a Stage**

"All the world's a stage,  
>And all the men and women merely players;<br>They have their exits and their entrances;" - William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

* * *

><p>Everyone has their roles, and they are no exception; all five of them play parts just as their friends, family, and associates. It just so happens that the roles they play are more complex. But how often does the audience think about the feelings of the actor?<p>

Perhaps once in a blue moon they do, but all too often the audience is merely interested in the performance. Maybe that is the way that it should be, it's easier on everyone that way after all.

A convenient excuse, isn't it?

* * *

><p>He has trained for years, seeking guidance from those who accepted him for what he was. He has become the consummate professional, always honing, always perfecting his craft. Even though the mask he wears appears as many things, he prefers to think of it as a kitsune mask: playful, yet somehow innocently deceitful as well.<p>

He considers that out of all of his compatriots, he needs to put forth the most effort: he's the closest one to normality, all things considered. He doesn't know if that's a blessing or a curse, and he prefers not to think about it.

Guile and aloofness are his favourite tools, he's come to know both of them quite well. Whether they make him intriguing to people, or succeed in frustrating people, he knows that either way it helps him do his job. Of course he'll tell you something, sounding completely serious and earnest, only to conclude with a smile and a shrug, quickly adding that he was just joking around or thinking out loud. Of course, there are moments that he really isn't, but the fact that only he knows when those moments are gives him a fair amount of guilty pleasure: a chance to be honest and dishonest in the same line.

He's comfortable with his role, or as he would be quick to correct if he ever spoke up about it, roles. Since in one he's an important character, but not the hero. Despite his tired musings from time to time, he secretly enjoys the backstage part he plays: the one where he **is** the hero, defending a world that sadly will remain mostly ignorant of its own plight, let alone expecting thanks.

All the same, he's content, he likes to think. But there are times when he forces thoughts into the background of his mind, that desire to throw off his well kept mask and show them - show her - his true face. It wouldn't be half as maddening if the impulse came like a storm, almost impossible to resist, but it's not like that. In fact, it's the exact opposite; it's the small, inevitable clawing just under the surface. He knows that he can keep it under control, he just doesn't know for how long. It's his greatest fear that one day the clawing will turn the filigree on his mask into cracks, and that no amount of work, no amount of polish, will repair them.

The breaking of his mask is his greatest fear; his second greatest is that it will mark the happiest day of his life.

* * *

><p>Hers is an interesting life, an interesting performance. If she took the time, she might consider it strange that she has to play a part, considering that she already knows how the reviews will turn out. Still, they tell her that she has a part to play, and that she must play it.<p>

And so she does. She uses her skills, or some would say lack thereof, to ingratiate herself to her fellow actors, to the audience. Her beauty, her innocent naiveté . . . her unwillingness to stand up for herself. Certainly she objects, but the fact that her objections fall on deaf ears is simply part of what makes her role so endearing.

That what she tells herself at least, sometimes in-between her own soft sobs.

But it's not always so bad. Her treatment grew better over time, those she shared the stage with mellowed somewhat, although of course things are still interesting. Perhaps that's what she enjoys, it keeps her on her toes, and her role, she surmises, doesn't require so much effort that she can't stop and smell the roses.

Of course, she keeps herself occupied with the little things. That makes it easier to avoid thinking about the bigger ones.

She never really stops to consider why everyone seems to know more, seems to be able to do more than she can. She just accepts that. It doesn't strike her as odd, because it should be the other way around. She also never thinks about why, if she's supposed to know how the performance turns out, that she's always caught off guard by what happens around her. There are times when she should think about how even the person who's supposed to be in the dark seems to intuit more than her. Instead she thinks of what tea leaves would make a refreshing brew for her fellow performers.

As much as she tries to keep her mind off things though, there's one thought that she can't shake, no matter how much tea she brews, no matter how many different types of costumes she wonders she'll be put in. She can't help but wonder . . .

Is she wearing a mask to play this grand performance, or is the mask is wearing her?

She'll never know for sure, because she can't. No one who knows would willingly tell her. After all, the performance is paramount to the performer. Only one of those who she shares the stage with would know, and there's no guarantee of trust from any corner.

Not even her own.

So, she pushes it out of her mind the best she can. She remains unquestioning of those handing her the lines that she must read. All she knows is that keeping quiet makes things interesting. She smiles and reassures herself: at least she lives in interesting times.

Of course, no one ever told her that the phrase "May you live in interesting times" was never intended as a blessing.

* * *

><p>She moves onto the stage, white as snow, moving like a ghost. Every performance is perfect, every move calculated and executed with inhuman precision. Anyone else would wonder how she does it.<p>

She is not anyone.

If anyone asked her, she'd probably say that she doesn't wear a mask, if she said anything at all. She is what she is, it's really just that simple. Of course it's not necessary for her to divulge everything to everyone around her, it would be counterproductive and against protocol.

So she stands, the lithe form she has acquired becoming the ultimate pillar of support. Indispensable silent character, defender, problem solver. All of these attributes are things she has been given by others, slowly replacing the tabula rasa of her existence. She does not mind being defined as such by others.

By the same token however, she'd likely never admit that she cares dearly for the attributes she gave herself: her name, her love of books, her stoicism.

"… I actually think you look cuter without glasses."

She ponders over whether that was a choice made by her, or by another. The answer remains illusive to her.

Perhaps unlike her fellow players, she thinks of her place in things quite often. It does not stop her performances from attaining perfection. A small part of her seems to long that it might. She is quick to purge that aspect of herself.

She was aware of the day, she knew a great deal in advance. The day that she'd finally stumble, and not in a small way as akin to her auburn haired foil, but in a majestic, earth shattering fashion. She overstepped her bounds, attempted to become the writer and director, as well as an actor with a completely new raison d'etre.

She would say that she told no one because no one thought to ask. That is a lie. Even if she herself does not realize it. Part of her longed for the freedom to falter, the permission to make mistakes. It overwhelmed her with her complete cognizance, why fight against the inevitable tide?

The choice was not hers to make in either case. She still wonders how much willpower it took her to hide a shard of her former self in that new production, how strange it was to give that choice to someone else. She knows though, that it was never her choice to make.

She is unsure if she could have made it. Uncharacteristic in any case, and oddly refreshing sensation, although she thinks unique is a better descriptive term.

She was prepared for the consequences, and spared from the harshest. If she were capable of expressing surprise, she believes that she would have in that situation. She is still near perfect. What was revoked changes her in ways imperceptible to everyone else. But her performance has not been greatly affected.

It still appears effortless. It still appears perfect.

It is the imperfections though, alterations, whether through her own designs or not, that prove to be much more fulfilling to her now. A minutia all her own.

She knows that one day the tide may rise again. Part of her recognizes that that should instill fear. Part of her welcomes it, just as last time.

The largest part though, wonders if this time the choice will be hers. And if so, how will she choose.

She does not know the answer. And honestly, she prefers it that way.

* * *

><p>She is less an actor and more a force of nature. That is how she prefers to think of herself at least. She's not far off the mark, all things told. She attempts to live as she thinks everyone should: to the fullest. She is a mess of contradictions: controlled chaos. And she would have it no other way.<p>

She is still an actor though, despite the fact that she'd no doubt resent being called one it does not make the title false.

She is frenetic; no two days should ever be the same. She works her hardest to ensure that even when they have to go by the script, that there's always at least a few deviations, it's a shame all her efforts fall on deaf ears or rouse complaints from those who should be grateful to support her. Resistance though, makes her victories great and small alike all the sweeter to her.

Above all else she wants to scream "I AM HERE!"

Some would tell her not to scream, but she'll pay them no heed. Everyone around her is too dull, too content, all too happy to simply let it all pass by them. She can't understand, she won't. She'll make them understand instead, that it's better to risk it all for something new, than to languish with the safe, predictable old.

She has aspirations for greater things. She thinks that one day she'll be more than an actor, more than a director, more than anything anyone has ever seen before. She's simply making due for the moment.

She'd be incensed if she knew how many masks she was forced to wear. She loathes being classified and quantified, although she is more than happy to give distinctions to others. She wouldn't stand to know that there are competing theories regarding her, different terms for the same stale business.

What she doesn't know can't hurt her, or anyone else.

She shakes things up more than she knows, but it's still manageable. God, Temporal Anomaly, Data Explosion, it's hard to imagine what she would - or could - be. What she doesn't know is that without those masks she might burn so brightly that she'd sear away everyone and everything.

It's not a guarantee, but no one else wants to find out the hard way. So they force the masks upon her without her even realizing it, telling themselves that it's for the best after all.

"Haruhi is Haruhi, what else is there to say?"

She'd smile if she knew someone had said that, even more if she found out just who. A smile more than her regular, devious one. The smile that she keeps only for rare occasions. The smile that makes those around her believe that if one day she tears off all her masks, that she'd just as likely warm the world with her radiance as destroy it with her excessive energy.

After all, what'd be entertaining about an empty theatre?

* * *

><p>He wears no mask, belittles the gravity of his part, takes an all too casual gait towards his performance, and yet to them he is somehow more captivating because of it. His bemusement towards all of it amazes some, irritates others, but is ignored by none.<p>

What is he, they wonder? He himself would like to know. He shouldn't be important, but he is, and he's strangely bothered by that fact. He's on the stage with them, but he could just as easily be part of the audience: the ultimate critic, they blossom by his praise and shrink from his scorn, even if they'd never admit it.

Is he their director? They take his word over even hers, although he has no palpable authority. He can't cancel the show on the whim of a bad mood, and yet, they still seek his guidance, his frankness, his purely tempered normalcy.

He goes along with it all, exasperated, but secretly and sincerely thankful for such an opportunity. He's acted as the last sane man, the prophet Cassandra, and so much more. He used to wonder if it was truly what he wanted, but pivotally he answered that question himself. He still feels badly for his selfishness in that regard from time to time, despite the insistence of all parties involved that it was for the best.

He wonders though, if he'll ever truly get to know any of his fellow actors - although he'd balk at that term, they're his friends after all - on a more neutral stage, where the charades and the masks and the pretentiousness of having to fulfill roles will be dropped, and they can all just breathe and be comfortable in their own skin. He hopes for that day, although he doesn't know whether it will ever come. Until then he sates himself with glimpses of the faces behind the masks, and tries to cherish the performers more than their performances.

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
>That struts and frets his hour upon the stage<br>And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
>Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury<br>Signifying nothing."

He'd love to know which of them - if any - is the idiot; more than a few days he has the sinking suspicion it's him. But, if you tell him that it all signifies nothing, then to him you're a bigger fool than anyone he knows; even a certain starry-eyed girl chasing her grandiose dreams with her head above the clouds.

After all, even if all the world's a stage, there's no reason why people can't just act like themselves, and make the most of their own day to day performances. Whether that means sitting around just enjoying doing nothing, or going cliff jumping - although he'd rather not put more crazy ideas into her head, she thinks of enough of those on her own - he knows enough to know that a script is no way to live by, even if it'd be easier that way.

Now, if you don't mind, he has to get back to wondering why he's still getting D's in English, despite being able to quote soliloquies by rote.

Oh brother.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> It has been a while, hasn't it? This little experimental short was actually written back when I was working on the final chapters of Severance, but never found the time to get beta'd and released until now. It's somewhat on the short side, and not really a conventional story, but it was an idea that I was compelled to write after dwelling upon it. I hope that it was an enjoyable read, because it was an enjoyable write.

I'd like to thank BKE for being the beta for this work. As for the future I do have plans for another more traditional and lengthy story, but I can't make any promises I'm afraid. I will be back though, if not sooner than later.

Thank you again for reading. As per usual any reviews are greatly appreciated; I love knowing what I've done right and what could use improving, so any feedback helps.

Oh, and the disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. The Haruhi Suzumiya franchise belongs to Nagaru Tanigawa, and the various excerpts of Shakespeare's works of course belong to the bard and to the greater annuls of history.


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